


does he know the way i worship our love?

by spiralingcosmos



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Autistic Greg House, Body Worship, Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Scars, Season/Series 06, Trans Greg House, Trans James Wilson, but not like. in a weird way, in my secret good version of house theyre t4t. im right, post-Mayfield, reference to past self-harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-13 18:34:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29283075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiralingcosmos/pseuds/spiralingcosmos
Summary: When they’re close like this, Wilson realizes just how well he knows House’s body, even from before they were together; it’s like the way he knows the drive to the hospital by heart, or the way he could wander the halls of the oncology ward with his eyes closed and never hit a wall.House is sort of a map of his own, familiar under Wilson’s fingers, a history told through scars and lines. He’s memorized them, knows the oldest from the new, knows their stories and their paths.
Relationships: Greg House/James Wilson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	does he know the way i worship our love?

**Author's Note:**

> takes place in s6, post-mayfield; title is from headfirst slide into cooperstown on a bad bet by fall out boy. as always, i hope u enjoy!

Wilson thinks he must be the luckiest person alive, to get to see House like this.

In the late-evening gloom of their bedroom, he’s pressed up close to House, his head nestled in the crook between shoulder and neck, his arm draped across House’s chest, their legs tangled. At some point in the night, House has, in his sleep, twined his own fingers with that of the hand wrapped around him. He can feel House’s breathing, slow and deep and steady, and he feels his warmth through the two thin layers of cotton that separate them, and right now he’s the happiest he’s probably ever been.

When they’re close like this, Wilson realizes just how well he knows House’s body, even from before they were together; it’s like the way he knows the drive to the hospital by heart, or the way he could wander the halls of the oncology ward with his eyes closed and never hit a wall.

House is sort of a map of his own, familiar under Wilson’s fingers, a history told through scars and lines. He’s memorized them, knows the oldest from the new, knows their stories and their paths.

Next to his face is the bullet scar on House’s neck, half-hidden by stubble and faded with time; Wilson knows its twin lies further down on his torso. He presses a light kiss to the nearer, feels the light tickle of House’s beard on his lips.

The hand holding his own twitches slightly, and Wilson smiles against him. House has long fingers, nimble and steady and quick from years of piano-playing, his fingertips calloused from steel guitar strings and his palm still vaguely rough with the burn scar (which House _hates_ , despite how it's mostly faded, says it’s changed the texture of his palm -- Wilson doesn’t mind, but then again, he isn’t the one with sensory issues), the reminder of 97 seconds without a heartbeat. Something still clenches in Wilson’s chest at the thought, even now, more than two years later.

It’s the same something that still hurts when he thinks of the ugly, gaping scar in House’s right thigh — he doesn’t touch it, because House is sleeping, and the scar is sensitive enough that even his feather-light fingers might wake him, but next time House allows Wilson will kiss it, and the whole time he'll be thinking _you’re beautiful you’re beautiful you’re beautiful_ in the hope that someday he’ll finally understand.

There’s really very few scars that don’t make Wilson wince to think of. The thin, long-healed ones on the insides of House’s wrists go largely ignored by both of them, bitter tokens of a winter neither wants to remember; same with the slight unnatural bend to a few fingers on his left hand, healed somewhat poorly where they were never properly splinted. Wilson brushes those fingers with his thumb, sighing against House’s shoulder -- he still feels responsible for that. 

House shifts a bit, still asleep, and Wilson adjusts accordingly. His arm now lays just so that if it weren’t for his hand being occupied by another, he could trace along the nearly invisible scars on House’s chest through his shirt. His own are just as faded, of course, and it’s just knowing what incredible luck they had to have met each other that floods him with a dozen different feelings that, in the end, boil down to _love_.

Wilson almost wishes, then, that he could see House’s face -- he always looks so peaceful when he sleeps, excepting those times when he’s having a nightmare, and right now he’d rather like to examine the familiar canvas of his best friend. He settles for imagining it instead, the beginning of crow’s feet House hadn’t had when they’d met twenty years ago, the tired circles that never quite seem to leave from under his eyes, the wrinkles and creases in his forehead and brow and around his mouth. Distantly, Wilson hopes that he gets to see more of those in the coming years, that they’ll get to be terrible old men together.

“Why are you still awake?” House’s voice is thick and low with sleep, and Wilson starts, not realizing he’d woken up.

“Just thinking,” Wilson murmurs. He presses a kiss to House’s neck, in the same spot as before -- right on that bullet scar -- only now, House is awake to remember it.

He feels rather than hears the silent laugh that escapes from House’s lungs, pressed against his ribcage like he is. “Sap.”

Squeezing his hand, Wilson can tell House is already drifting back to sleep, and he figures it certainly wouldn’t hurt to try and get some sleep, himself. It is pretty late, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> i have such a weird thing for just. knowing ur lover's body. anyways come say hi on [tumblr](dykecameron.tumblr.com)!!! :)


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